


Manifest Hold

by Jay_eagle



Series: Fandot Creativity Night Fics [6]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Douglas!whump, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, MJN Air Is A Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:36:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3505307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_eagle/pseuds/Jay_eagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas' cockiness gets him in trouble again, and the Abu Dhabi cat gets its revenge.</p><p>Written for the 4th fandot creativity night, for the prompt 'Forbidden'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manifest Hold

Douglas’ week was not going well. His second wife had cancelled Emily’s visit; his first wife had taken it into her head to request a review of their alimony arrangements (read: she was about to demand more money) and Martin had decided to instigate a new set of cargo loading procedures, which took twice as long and – as far as Douglas could see – offered little benefit beyond a slightly neater hold.

 

It was his turn to do the cargo manifest before their crack-of-dawn flight to Munich, and he hadn’t been able to sleep, so for once he arrived at the airfield early - before anyone else. His night’s sleep had been so poor that at 3am he’d even texted Carolyn to tell her he wouldn’t be fit to fly – praying that he’d be asleep by 5, instead of getting up to drive to the airfield – but no, he’d still been awake, and so he’d given up on getting any shuteye. He’d concluded that he might as well be flying as lounging in bed; after all, the flight would have to be cancelled without him, and Martin was due to operate out anyway - and so he had driven grumpily to the airport.

 

The one saving grace was that the ground staff, in a fit of uncharacteristic efficiency, had already loaded their cargo – over a dozen big filing cabinets in crates, of all things - and Douglas filled out the manifest and left it on Carolyn’s desk before going out to GERTI to check his list was accurate.

 

 _Honestly_ , he thought, as he peered into the bay, Martin’s new system was an utter pain. With everything pushed to the sides, it was far trickier to see what GERTI’s surprisingly capacious interior contained. And Carolyn (not to mention the CAA) would have his guts for garters if something was wrong; Munich’s customs officers were notoriously nit-picky about the details. With a sigh, he heaved himself up inside the plane’s hold. Technically it was forbidden to climb in without the use of steps, but he couldn’t be arsed to go and find them – he was only going to count the damn cabinets quickly and then he’d be clear to go and try and catch a ten minute snooze before the others arrived.

 

Hastily, he ran his hands over the boxes stacked in the dim interior, no artificial lights to guide him. _One, two, three, four…_ he got right to the back of the plane by the time he reached 15, and experienced a flare of satisfaction as he discovered the flaw in Martin’s new stacking guidelines – this rearmost crate was really precariously placed, half-balancing on top of another just for the sake of keeping it at the edge of the hold. It wobbled as he touched it – in fact, it would make his triumphant point all the stronger if he nudged it just a little further out. _Martin wouldn’t be able to disagree with me then.._. He moved to the side, and pulled hard on the box.

 

Except that he hadn’t realised how easily the wooden crate would shift on its aluminium pallet – and the next thing Douglas knew, he was tumbling backwards with the heavy cabinet ushering him solidly, inevitably, towards the ground.

 

He just about had time to register that this was really going to hurt before his head cracked another box behind him and swirling black took all his worries away.

 

* * *

 

 

Douglas came to an indeterminate time later, in the pitch darkness. At first he experienced a moment’s panic that he’d somehow been blinded; but he blinked, and then realised he could see a tiny LED light in the roof of the hold, part of some electrical system or other. The green glow was oddly comforting; it felt like a friendly eye watching over him.

 

His next realisation was far less welcome: as though it had been waiting to pounce until he was least expecting it, sharp pain suddenly whumped over him with an intensity that made his head spin. _My ribs…_ He tried to lift his right arm to feel his side, but with a sickening gush of dread realised that he couldn’t move – in fact, could barely breathe. The crate was half-covering his chest, pinning him to the lumpy floor of the cargo bay. Gingerly, he turned his head, feeling something trickling down his collar. “Hello?” he called. “Hello?”

 

He could move his left arm – that wasn’t trapped. He lifted it, but as he did so, the second realisation hit. It was very loud in the bay – his palm had been vibrating on the floor. And good God, it was cold…. This time, a stab of outright fear got him right in the heart.

 

GERTI was aloft. And he was in the hold.

 

* * *

 

In the flight deck, Arthur was still animatedly offering plausible reasons for Douglas’ atypical efficiency to Herc and Martin. “He might be trying to impress Mum! I heard him say that his first wife – you know, the really horrible one – wanted more of his money… Perhaps he was going to try and earn some overtime, and that’s why he came back and did the load sheet last night.”

 

Martin frowned. “Yes, but you know Carolyn would never pay overtime. She barely pays _time_.” He turned to Herc. “Have you ever known him –“ he began, but halted as Carolyn bustled into the flight deck.

 

“You’re not still discussing that good-for-nothing lazybones, are you?” she asked, acidly. “Drop the subject, for goodness’ sake. Douglas can just be grateful that Herc happened to be available –“

 

“Staying over,” interjected Herc, for the pleasure of watching Carolyn turn beetroot red whilst trying to continue to bluster.

 

“Fine, staying –“ she glared at him “- so the trip didn’t have to be cancelled. If it had been, I would have been _extremely_ displeased.” She thumped the two mugs of coffee down on the instrument panel. “Come on, Arthur. Time to tidy the galley.” She beckoned him after her imperiously, and the two of them exited.

 

“Poor old Douglas,” Herc said. “I’d hate to be in his shoes when Carolyn gets her hands on him.”

 

“Quite,” Martin agreed. A few moments’ silence passed. “I hope he’s alright. He’s been looking stressed all week.”

 

“He’ll be fine,” Herc shrugged. “He used to go off sick fairly frequently when we were at Air England.”

 

Martin frowned. _But that’s when he was drinking…_ “He’s never missed a flight at MJN.”

 

“Well, there you go,” Herc said, reassuringly. “Happens to all of us sometimes.”

 

“I’ve never missed a trip,” Martin insisted, pride swelling inside him.

 

Herc chuckled. “Well, you’re _you_ … Captain.”

 

They flew on. Two hours to go.

 

* * *

 

In the hold, Douglas had long since passed ‘uncomfortable’ and was well into ‘severely painful’ territory. Though he’d never have admitted it to anyone aloud (indeed, a part of his brain was already working out how he’d spin this story for kudos and dramatic effect in the Hose and Hydrant) a good deal of him was becoming extremely frightened. Breathing was really difficult – the weight of the box crushing him forcing him to gasp shallowly – and the chill of the unheated bay seemed to be penetrating right through to his bones. His teeth had stopped chattering five minutes before – which he would have counted as a mercy since it was no longer sending shudders through his aching chest, except for the dim and distant medical school memory that hypothermia probably wasn’t far off.

 

He was so tired. But he’d been tired before he’d even been squashed by the crate; was it the cold, or just lack of sleep making him feel like he’d really rather drop off? His brain chewed fruitlessly over the worry as a way to avoid slumber – he knew that snoozing wasn’t a good idea, no matter how tempting. Numbness was stealing over him – he couldn’t feel his feet or free hand. Only the wracking ache where the box rested was enough to keep him conscious, and he cursed it and thanked it simultaneously.

 

Just then, the plane banked, tipping enough to make the crate shift slightly, slipping further on to his hand. He cried out as the fingernail of his little finger was dented by the weight, then wished he hadn’t wasted the breath – dragging air in to replace what he’d exhaled was so much effort. He’d never had to put so much focused thought into inhaling before – the autonomic reflex an action he’d not given a second’s thought to before today. Wildly he vowed that – if he escaped – he’d never take another breath without being grateful for it.

 

He considered shouting for help again, but dismissed the idea; they’d never hear him over the roar of the engines, and his hard-won breath was too precious to spare for yelling. He settled for humming something from _The Magic Flute_ instead, trying desperately to focus on something other than the pain. Little white sparks seemed to be dancing before his eyes, now, and whilst part of him thought they were pretty – tiny shooting stars to join the green LED – the more rational side of his brain shouted at him that he wasn’t getting enough air.

 

 _I wish I knew how much time had passed._ He knew the flight time – three hours – but he had no clue how long they’d been in the sky before he’d come round. _And how are they flying anyway? This is too long a leg for a single pilot_.

 

Douglas’ brain fretted and whirred, trying desperately to stay away from the thought that was actually pressing in on him: how long can a man in shirt-sleeves with a crush injury and concussion survive in an unheated hold at 36,000 feet? A mad recollection of Abu Dhabi, years before, occurred to him. The cat was getting its revenge, it appeared. And Martin clearly still hadn’t learnt his lesson – _check the hold before takeoff, stupid man_ – except Douglas realised that that was unjust, even as he cursed the captain. Martin could well have peered in, checked the thermostat at the side, and still not have noticed him. It would have been dark, after all, and who’d expect to find a colleague under a crate – particularly one not making any noise? And then Douglas was even more furious; he wanted to find someone else to blame for his predicament, damn it. Martin had even let him down in that. It was all his _own_ fault. Arrogant Douglas, knows best, right up until the world comes crashing down around his ears. _Idiot_.

 

It felt like a decade, a century, to Douglas before he felt the familiar dropping sensation that heralded GERTI commencing her descent. The change in angle subtly altered the way the crate was lying on him, driving more precious air out of his struggling right lung. The pain was growing increasingly severe, and Douglas was just inches away from panicking. Who knew what internal injuries he might have sustained beyond a few fractured ribs? _Perhaps I’m dying_. He squashed the thought and tried to focus on the fact that at least the lessening of altitude would allow the hold to warm a little – he’d never, ever been so frozen. He remembered a science experiment from his schooldays – his chemistry teacher had dipped a rose into liquid nitrogen, and then hit it with a hammer. That was how he felt now: as if he would shatter to pieces at the slightest touch, bits of first officer skittering all to hell, destroyed beyond repair…

 

 _No_. With a Herculean effort, he hauled his mind back to sanity. He had to retain his reason, be ready to yell as soon as the engines were shut down. They’d known GERTI to wait four hours before a cargo offload in the past, and if no one found him before then –

 

He screwed his eyes shut and flexed his free hand into his thigh, fingernails digging in, another little spark of pain to ground him, high up in the air. GERTI pitched again, then rumbled – little hopping skips that indicated they might be passing through the clouds. Douglas tried to remember the day’s weather report. How low were the clouds supposed to be over Munich? Were they nearly down?

 

He counted to thirty more than twenty times over before the _thump_ of wheels meeting tarmac caused him to cry out in agony. Uselessly, he wriggled again, desperation to be free swamping him in a wave. _Let me out, oh God, please…_

 

* * *

 

Martin gave a sigh of satisfaction as he taxied GERTI to the stand ATC had picked out for them. He’d never flown with Herc sitting next to him before, and – though he’d never admit it – he’d been a little worried about his old tendency to do the wrong thing at moments of high stress, such as when he had a senior captain from SwissAir scrutinising his every move. His landing had been good – well, adequate, but he hadn’t bounced the plane, at least.

 

Herc was flipping through the paperwork, checking it was all present and correct for the ground staff. He turned up the cargo manifest just as Martin looked over. “I still can’t believe Douglas Richardson – the career ‘I can’t be bothered to do anything ahead of time’ man – handed this in last night,” he said, laughing. “Perhaps he’s turning over a new leaf.”

 

Martin frowned. “It’d be just like him to do it in a hurry and miss something off,” he grumbled. “Perhaps I’d better check it’s all accounted for. You know what the Germans are like – pernickety to a fault.” He brightened. “Have I told you about my new system for organising the hold? You can come and see – perhaps it’s something SwissAir could use!” He saw Herc opening his mouth, but rushed on. “I’ve completed the shutdown checks – there –“ he flipped the last switch – “It won’t take a minute, and then – perhaps…” He lowered his voice. “If you approve, perhaps you could put in a good word for me over there, one day.” Martin ignored the pang of guilt that he felt at the thought of ever leaving MJN. _It’s just sensible to have a back-up plan,_ he told himself. To Herc, he said “Come on!”

 

The two of them descended the steps, Herc having reluctantly called to Carolyn that they’d only be a few seconds. “Just checking Douglas’ load sheet.”

 

“Very wise,” Carolyn replied, and went back to directing Arthur’s efforts to clear up – he seemed to have spilt his breakfast everywhere. Martin chuckled as the two pilots walked to open the hold. _Trust Arthur_. But he suddenly realised Herc had stopped, a perplexed expression on his face.

 

“Can you hear something?” Herc held a hand to his ear.

 

“What?” Martin listened. Now Herc mentioned it, he could – a sort of muffled banging. “It – does it sound like it’s coming from -?”

 

Herc nodded. “Inside GERTI.” His face creased in bewilderment as they walked faster. “Does that sound… mechanical, to you?”

 

Concern flooded Martin’s chest. “No,” he said. “But what –?“ The noise was louder now, and - _Christ_ – they could both hear the noise intermingled with the thumping. The voice, crying out. Martin turned hastily to Herc. “Get Carolyn.”

 

Herc nodded, and sprinted back up the steps into GERTI’s cabin. Martin took a deep breath and flung the hold doors open.

 

“Hello?” he called, peering into the darkness. “Is someone there?”

 

“M-Martin?” The voice was barely audible, scratchy, but Martin would have known it anywhere. His heart rate skyrocketed in utter panic, and without knowing how he was hauling himself up and running through the black space, nearly falling on the uneven floor.

 

“Douglas? Douglas, is that you?!”

 

No reply, just a horrid, rattling wheeze – but it was enough for Martin to follow to the very back of the hold. “Help!” he cried out, fumbling for his phone, needing more light.

 

“Martin,” Douglas managed again, weakly. He flinched as the beam of light from Martin’s improvised torch caught him right in the eyes, blinding after the pitch dark he’d been in for hours.

 

Martin cursed, a foul word he’d never used before in his life, and dropped to his knees beside the pinioned FO, taking in the crate crushing him and the pallor of Douglas’ skin. There was an unnatural blue cast to Douglas’ lips, and Martin could see a small pool of blood on the floor, running from a nasty cut along the back of Douglas’ skull. “Where are you hurt?”

 

A sudden shiver shuddered agonisingly through Douglas, relief at being found at last nearly driving him to tears. He gritted his teeth and tried to answer. “Chest. Crate – can’t breathe.” He gestured feebly with his free hand.

 

Martin sprang to his feet and examined the enormous box. “Help, help!” he yelled, but there was no reply. He bent again. “Douglas, I have to get Herc and Arthur – I daren’t just push this off you, I’ll hurt you more.”

 

Douglas knew logically that Martin was right, but it didn’t stop him grabbing the captain’s shoe. “Don’t – go –“ he gritted out, desperation in his face.

 

Martin hardened his heart. “I have to,” he said, and sprinted back to the door of the hold. Just as he stuck his head out to yell again, Herc, Arthur and Carolyn appeared right in front of him. “S'Douglas!” he shouted, almost incoherently.

 

“D-?” Carolyn began, but Martin cut her off.

 

“We need an ambulance, very very urgently – he’s trapped!” Without further ado, Carolyn whipped out her phone and was dialling. Martin turned to Herc and Arthur. “Come in, I can’t get the box off him, hurry –“ He turned and vanished back into the plane’s belly, the image of Herc and Arthur’s horrified faces seared into his mind’s eye. “We’re coming!”

 

“G-glad to hear it,” came the weakly sardonic response, just audible over their hurrying footsteps, before Douglas’ words ceased with another rattling wheeze.

 

The three of them arrived back at Douglas’ prone form, and Arthur bent down to him. “Oh no, Douglas!” he cried, softly, taking the FO’s hand, but Martin wasn’t having it.

 

“Look – the box.” He pointed, knowing that Herc, at least, was paying attention. “I didn’t dare just push it off him – we’ll hurt him more if we do. We have to lift it –“

 

“Back on to the pallet, I see,” Herc supplied, and Martin nodded gratefully.

 

“Yes. Arthur, quickly.” To his credit, the steward stood immediately and got ready to help, though chattering frantically.

 

“His hand – it’s like ice. He’s so cold – Oh, Skip, do you remember the –“

 

“The cat,” Douglas coughed. “I think karma’s pay-“ He choked, his air giving out before he could get to the end of the sentence. “Please,” he wheezed.

 

“On three,” Martin commanded, and they bent to grab a corner each. “One, two, three – heave!” They put all their strength into the lift, and to gasps of collective relief the crate shifted up and off Douglas’ battered body. Douglas made them all jump, though – as the pressure was released and the blood raced back into his injured chest, his agony spiked through the roof and he wailed, a sharp, wet cry that he didn’t even have the breath to finish.

 

At that moment, Carolyn reappeared, hurtling into the hold like a white-haired cannonball. “Dear Lord!” she cried out as she hastened to join them. “Are you killing him? What’s –“ She skidded to a halt, taking in the scene. “Douglas, my God –“

 

“Is the ambulance coming?” Martin wanted to shake the information out of her.

 

She nodded jerkily. “And the airfield medic. They’ve radioed her, she’s on her way –“ They were all on their knees around Douglas, now. He’d started shivering violently, and Carolyn turned hastily to Arthur. “Blankets. Get all of them. He’s ice-cold.” Arthur sprinted off, looking glad of a task to undertake, Martin thought.

 

Martin probed lightly at the back of Douglas’ skull with his fingers, eliciting a hiss of distress. “You bashed your head?”

 

“Knocked… myself… out… shifting… boxes…” Douglas rasped.

 

“When? You total _moron_ , when?” Carolyn’s voice was… well, caringly vicious, Martin thought. Typical.

 

“S’morning.” Douglas shuddered again, and Martin and Herc as one shrugged off their jackets to throw over him.

 

“What time, Douglas? The paramedics will want to know.” Herc shifted his jacket so it covered Douglas’ arm better.

 

“Dunno. Half five?” Douglas’ eyes drooped. “Good god… hurts,” he harshed out.

 

In a clattering hurry, Arthur returned with the blankets and the airfield medic, helping her up and into the cargo bay. “I got them,” he called. “And this is Inge; she doesn’t speak much English though…”

 

“Medic,” said Inge, gesturing at herself as she strode over, carrying a sizeable first aid kit.

 

“Yes, yes, quickly,” Martin burbled. “He was under that –“ He pointed, and she nodded her comprehension.

 

“How long?”

 

“All flight, and probably a bit before – four hours? Vier Stunden,” Martin added, his schoolboy German coming back to him in a surprising rush.

 

Inge was examining Douglas, the others shifting back to give her room. She turned to Carolyn and pointed. “Can you – please – go and wait. Der Krankenwagen.” Seeing a lack of understanding in Carolyn’s face, she turned to Martin. “Der Krankenwagen, der Krankenwagen... Kann sie sich bitte mit dem Krankenwagen treffen?”

 

Clarity burst in Martin’s brain. “She wants you to go and meet the ambulance – show the crew where to come.”

 

Carolyn nodded, and trotted off immediately. “Come on, Arthur,” she said. “We’ll cover two possible approaches between us – don’t know where they’ll come from…” Her voice faded as the two of them vanished.

 

Martin turned back to Douglas. Inge was probing along the wall of his chest, and Douglas shouted with pain. “Entschuldigung,” she apologised. “Where – where hurt?”

 

Douglas grunted, his eyes shut. “Mostly – chest. Head, too.”

 

“Legs OK?”

 

Douglas nodded, but it seemed to cost him a lot of effort to do so. Inge popped her bag open, and extracted a thermometer, taking his temperature via his ear. She shook her head, and Martin leapt forward without realising he’d even taken a step. “What is it?”

 

“Er ist unterkühlt. Fünfunddreissig.” She showed Herc the reading.

 

“35,” Herc said, even his usually unflappable tones shooting upwards in surprise. “You’ve given yourself hypothermia, old thing.” He patted Douglas’ ankle.

 

“Mm not old,” mumbled Douglas, wincing as Inge manipulated his squashed hand. “Ow!”

 

“Stop hurting him!” Martin commanded, crossly, only to be restrained by Herc’s hand on his shoulder.

 

“She’s just doing her job,” Herc pointed out, reasonably.

 

“I know, but...” Martin made an anguished face. “ _God_... I should have checked the hold. I should have come all the way in.”

 

“You _did_ check it, the thermostat. I saw your walkround.” Herc gripped Martin’s arm. “There was no sign someone was in here.”

 

“Not. Your. Fault,” Douglas managed to get out, between wheezes, surprising them both.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” Martin miserably chafed Douglas’ frozen fingers.

 

“No.” Douglas coughed, and whimpered, flinching as his ribs grated. “Was… trying… trying…” He gave up as Martin hushed him.

 

“Don’t. It’s fine.” The captain glanced up at Inge, who had sat back, having applied a basic dressing to the back of Douglas’ head. She gave him a reassuring nod, but he couldn’t relax. Douglas was hurt, and it was Martin's fault for not finding him.

 

A babble of voices heralded the arrival of three paramedics, who waved Martin and Herc off the plane and out of the way, two of them clearly fluent English speakers. Martin gave Douglas’ hand a last squeeze and then did as he was ordered, descending to stand uselessly on the tarmac with the other three MJN staff.

 

“He’ll be alright, won’t he, Mum?”

 

Carolyn didn’t appear to know how to answer. Herc stepped in. “He’s Douglas, Arthur.” He smiled reassuringly. “He’s far too stubborn to have anything permanent get the better of him.”

 

“He’ll be fine,” echoed Martin, automatically, his gaze never leaving the gaping hole in the side of GERTI, the black mouth of her cargo doors looking almost like a wound in her flank: an unnatural fissure that _just shouldn’t be_. Douglas was badly hurt, and it was his fault –

 

“Stop it.” Martin jerked in surprise as Herc gripped his elbow. “I can see you, standing there blaming yourself. It won’t do anyone any good – and it’s not something you did wrong.”

 

Martin groaned. “If I’d checked –“

 

“You _did_ check. Douglas must have been knocked out, or not able to shout. You’d never have expected someone back there.” Herc patted him. “Look, the steps weren’t at the hold door, were they?” Martin shook his head no. “Well, there you are. That’s Douglas breaking regs, not you.”

 

The captain wasn’t completely reassured, but just then the paramedics reappeared along with Inge, supporting a stretcher between them. Herc, Arthur and Martin dashed forwards to help them descend, supporting the plastic slab with Douglas' huddled figure tightly strapped to it as the medical personnel hopped down. “How is he?” Arthur asked, anxiously.

 

“He’ll be alright,” said one of the crew in accented English. “Broken ribs, concussion – we’ll take him to get checked out.”

 

“How do you feel, Douglas?” Arthur asked, seeing the FO’s eyes blink open as the seven of them carried him over to the waiting ambulance.

 

“Better with… the magic drugs,” Douglas rasped. He had got more colour though, and the oxygen mask over his face had at least removed the blueness from his lips.

 

“Lots of painkillers,” said the other English-speaking medic, with a grin.

 

Martin relaxed a bit. If they were smiling, perhaps Douglas really would be OK. “Where are you taking him?”

 

Inge named the hospital, indicating through a basic mime that it was nearby. They left the medics to parcel Douglas into the vehicle and watched it set off. “Taxi?” Inge asked. “I show you.”

 

The four of them followed her, heart rates slowly climbing down from their adrenaline-spiked high. Carolyn suddenly stopped. “Wait! What about GERTI? There’ll be paperwork – the airfield –“ Indecision crossed her face.

 

“I’ll deal with it.” Herc turned around. “Keys?”

 

Martin threw them to him without a second thought, but Carolyn dithered. “Are you sure…?” she asked.

 

“Yes,” Herc rolled his eyes. “Off you go. You should be with him.”

 

“Come _on_ , Mum.” Arthur tugged her arm. “Douglas needs us.”

 

They went, and Carolyn stood not upon the order of their going.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Martin rapped on the door of Douglas’ private room and poked his head inwards. “Can I come in?” He raised his eyebrows as he took in the sight before him. “ _You’re_ looking better.”

 

Douglas grinned as he waved Martin to enter with his un-plastered hand (his right had three broken fingers and was lying bulkily on the bed). “Feel it, too,” he said, though the wince he made as he inhaled told of the pain he was still experiencing from the four cracked ribs Martin knew were taped up under his pyjamas. The dressing wrapped round his head gave him an uncharacteristically dishevelled look – he still didn’t look quite like the first officer Martin knew – but there was definite progress in that he was now sitting up in bed, reading a paper and with toast crumbs dotting the sheets.

 

Martin gestured at the crumby coverlet. “Eating again, I see.”

 

“Like a horse,” Douglas said. “I told them I was hungry.”

 

“Good.” Martin gave a sigh of relief. Despite all the doctors’ assurances, he still couldn’t shake the nagging fear that Douglas’ injuries were all due to his negligence – that some terrible mishap would rear up again and this time take the FO properly away from all of them. Douglas was clearly trying to brush it all off, but it had been a nearer-run thing than Martin cared to contemplate. _If the flight had been longer – or the box any heavier –_ He shuddered, involuntarily, and Douglas noticed, shoving the magazine aside.

 

“Martin,” Douglas said, strangely softly. “I’ve told you – stop thinking it was your fault. I shouldn’t have been in there. It’s –“ he grimaced – “all down to me.”

 

Martin shook his head. “I should have checked.”

 

Douglas gave an exasperated sigh. “Don’t you think that if there was _any_ way to blame someone else for all of this –“ he waved a hand over his garishly purpled shoulder, bruises poking from beneath his collar – “that I would be leaping on it?” He grinned. “This is a major blow to my ‘I’m-always-right’ mantra. It’s no one’s mistake but my own.” Seeing Martin still looking reluctant, he added “Besides, it’s over now. I’m going to be _fine_. You heard what the doctors said.”

 

“Yes, that you were incredibly lucky!” Martin exclaimed. “What if you hadn’t been?”

 

Douglas tried to motion the thought airily away, but Martin saw a shadow cross his face for a moment. “Don’t think about it. I _was_ lucky, that’s all that matters.” He smiled - the cat with the cream, or trying to be. “And they’ll let me go in a couple of days, and I’ll be flying again before you know it.” A spasm from his ribs made him place his hand there for a moment with a flinch. “Carolyn wouldn’t permit anything else.”

 

Martin was still silent, though he looked less tense than he had done when he entered the room. “Hey,” Douglas continued. “Come on. Just look at this as the universe teaching me some healthy respect for all those regulations you hold so dear.” He smirked at the captain.

 

Martin did laugh at that. “Now I _know_ you’ve got concussion,” he said. “Douglas Richardson, respectful of the regs that are only for us mere mortals to observe?”

 

Douglas kept grinning, though his tone of voice was more serious when he spoke. “I shall be more… careful… from this day forth,” he said. “After all, I suppose that bearing a _few_ petty rules in mind never killed anyone.”

 

“It did not,” Martin affirmed, eyes twinkling now.

 

“Fine,” Douglas said, with a long-suffering sigh. “I shall… from time to time… pay more heed to regulations, and avoid _some_ of the things that I now concede may be forbidden for… good reason.”

 

“Promise?”

 

Douglas surprised Martin by reaching to take his hand. “I promise,” he said. And Martin knew he meant it.

**Author's Note:**

> If any native German speakers spot any problems with my Deutsch, please please correct me!
> 
> Come say hello on Tumblr, where I preview fics: jay-eagle.tumblr.com .


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